“I Was There” Files: Loserville

So, you may have noticed Conny’s been a wee bit derelict with the blogging. May I just say, that I have an excuse: I’m a lame-o. I think that should clear things up.

Last Monday I spent twenty minutes at the Sa-Ra album release party but I was really wack (like staring at the wall, in a corner by myself, eating Handi-Snacks wack) so not much to report. Notable attendees included Damon Dash (who was dressed like he just left phys. ed.), Farnsworth Bentley (who was dressed like a colonial gay), Coco and Ice-T (WTF) and of course the Sa-Ra children themselves.

Last Thursday I upped (actually let’s say I defecated on) the foolishness bar by getting mad collegiate at Home Sweet Home. Buddies Lucas and Rev McFly were probably spinning cherubic melodies on decks of spun gold but I was too out of my cotton pickin’ mind to remember where I was let alone tell you what the scene was. Essentially, here is my recollection of that night:

And according to eyewitness reports, here’s what actually happened (TOTALLY NOT SAFE FOR WORK AFTER 2:48):

Accept for the strippers and blow (well, um…at least I hope, I don’t do found drugs) that was pretty much the do. I remember doing the Heizman for some white friends, then drinking in the bathroom, then waking up at 11am in my underwear. Drinking so you can avoid punching someone is never a good idea. You should always just sock them in the face.

Then Saturday night I went back to my half-gay roots and went to some GET TOE ass ghey club in Rhode Island. For those who don’t know, Rhode Island is like some shady ass country run by teamsters so that’s why Bostonian children infected with the ghey get their hump on out of state.

So, it’s a gay club and all but why come only half the stalls had doors? And all the little bois and studs and whoever were afraid to pee in front of other girls. It’s a ghey club!! Who are you being modest for? Jesus Christ is a hippie, that fool don’t care!

Also, I remembered why I strayed from the gay scene: Women are shitheads. You try to dance with one or whatever and they’re all stank or giving you mixed-ass messages. Then you don’t know how approach girls who are still cute but dressed like a 13 year old gangbanger because is she just a tomboy or a stud (or do you just need a life)? Then there’s the girls that hump you with no provocation and the men that wave their high tight asses in your face which, if you’re a double dipper like myself, becomes totally frustrating and irritating.

And since New England clubs basically close at 5:30pm, the real jump-off is the let-out. That means everybody hangs outside of the club parking lot for an hour, passes numbers, and looks at that “cutie” from the bar in natural light. We were up in the mix and I had to pee. But since they wouldn’t let me back into the club to use the loo, I just squatted in front of the club and relieved myself as the bouncer covered me instead. Good times for the Ivy League graduate who surprisingly does not have a degree in wanton foolishness.

For whatever reason, the car always breaks down and then they’re the stumbling around asking for jumper cables which no ever has until we realize we can just push it down the hill to the freeway. And of course, the first thing everyone says when we get to truckin’ is “we’re dropping you off first!”

So in a nutshell, that’s been my yucky life. But I’m looking forward to having oodles of yarns to tell when I get back from the KENTUCKY DERBY!!!!